


it was not all quiet

by lauribunny



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: All Quiet on the Western Front is mentioned, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, i like that book a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauribunny/pseuds/lauribunny
Summary: Marigold Schofield realizes that not all things can ever return from the war.
Relationships: William Schofield & His Children, William Schofield & Original Female Character(s), William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13
Collections: places not so far-1917





	it was not all quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Another Schofield family based fic because I am a sucker for Dad Scho, and this one is all about the trauma that a child impacted by war would have, even years after the fact. I hope you enjoy!

July 11th, 1929

Marigold sifts through the inventory at the back of the shop, her eyes tracing the abstract covers of the new shipments of books. It’s her job to sort through them- her parents pay her more than they probably ought, but her father dismisses it as commission for her various compilations of poetry and short stories she shares with the family, though she knows it’s probably more so additional money for her schooling in a way that won’t bruise her ego- she doesn’t like handouts. However, she is worryingly unmotivated to complete the task she is required to do, she doesn’t stir much, simply tracing her fingers over the untouched novels, her mind a fog from the lack of sleep she’s had as of late. It was starting to catch up with her.

She hears her father humming to himself in the front of the shop- the tune is vaguely familiar, and it reminds her of a lullaby he might have sung to her when she was small. But she cannot recall it- and she knows it will bother her, so she makes a note to ask him later. She’s supposed to be working, so she returns to the daunting stacks of novels- she eyes fresh copies of The Great Gatsby- Americana fascinates her to no end, and she reread that book until the covers were tattered. It’s strange to see new ones, so fresh and clean and lonely. She hopes they will find a nice home.

She sifts further, moving the box containing the copies of Gatsby to the side. Wuthering Heights- that book was an experience, to say the least. The Age of Innocence. Cheri. The Portrait of Dorian Gray. A Tale of Two Cities. All books she’d read and enjoyed and revelled in. There are leather bound copies of Shakespeare’s plays as well, and a particularly elegant copy of Hamlet catches her eye. Hamlet. She’d read that play entirely too young, and was utterly enamoured with it. She remembers her twelfth birthday, when her parents took her and her sister to a real production of it in Stratford-upon-Avon. Both Clarey and Mama had fallen asleep post intermission, but she’d sat on the edge of her seat for the entire four hours or so. She wanted to weep for the poor tragedian. Poor Hamlet. Poor, forsaken soul.

She thrusts the box alongside the others, and opens the tabs, finding neat copies of a novel with a title that immediately catches her eye.

All Quiet On The Western Front, Erich Maria Remarque. A colourful illustration of a young German soldier done in pencil gazes blankly into the distance.

She stares at it curiously, carefully lifting one of the neat copies from its box. It’s strange to see a drawing of a soldier dressed in the Boche uniform- all of the pictures she has of her father and his friends from the war feature the very distinctive British garb- and she has seen his old helmet more times than she can count on her fingers. But it feels so eerily familiar, and she is so bizarrely taken with it. 

The words “Western Front” glare at her from the page. She’d heard it far too oft in her childhood, and based on all she’d gathered from her father’s letters and journals as well as the empty, shell shocked stares she’d seen of the men of her town who’d served- including her dad, it may as well have read Gehenna.

She does not open the book, merely taking it in, observing the space it occupies. She hears her father chatting with a customer, but it may as well be empty noise. She wonders about the German boys who might have looked like this, who possibly once donned a uniform near identical. She wonders how many might have tried to kill her father, and how many he had to kill in return.

She hates the idea. Her father, the very same man who would read her bedtime stories and weave flowers into her braids, could have taken many lives on the hellish battlefields across the English Channel- especially considering they’d given him two chevrons for his service. Is it murder in war? She pushes these things aside. She does not want to think of the gentle hands that would hold her when she cried in the night once being strewn with the blood of boys who resembled the drawing on the cover.

He never told her much about that side of the war. The small journal excerpts and letters of his she’d managed to get her hands on mostly detailed the misery of the trenches, and the persistent throbbing in his brow, and the brothers he’d loved and lost. She couldn’t recall anything of the sort relating to actual combat save for a few scribbled poems about the mud of the Somme she’d found scrawled in the indents of a weathered bible. 

She traces the outline of the soldier’s face. She doesn’t quite know what to think, what to make of any of it. The war seemed so very far away- she was five when it ended. Eleven years ago. She will be seventeen come December, and it will seem even farther. She does not understand why she reminisces so- for she did not fight in the trenches, she did not feel the pulse of battle, the oblivion of blood and death. She spent the time at home, barely more than an infant, listening to her mother’s stifled sobs as she tried to maintain the order in the household, to care for both her and her little sister while her father was in France and Belgium. She was reading and writing with the limited knowledge she had, she was breaking off pieces of bread at every meal to save for the next, to save for something. She was learning how to darn socks that were more repair than yarn, sitting in the yard with Clarey, a dull ache from lack of proper sustenance tearing at her small stomach. And the echoes of adults, telling her to be brave, to be strong, to be proud of her father, to protect her mother and Clarey.

“Your daddy is fighting for Britain, sweet child. You must be brave for him. You must be brave for your mummy and your sister.”

“Your papa may just be why the old Krauts aren’t washing up on our shores. He’s a good soldier, lass. You have to be a good soldier here, too.”

“Keep the home fires burning, as they say. Your father will be home soon, little one. You have to give him a home to come back to.”

She cringes, her gut twisting as she holds the book. The burdening loneliness of the years her father was away seem to return to her in an instant. How her mother was so busy maintaining the bookstore, her hands would be calloused and shredded to pieces from paper cuts whenever she’d come home. How her grandmother and grandfather would tell her and Clarey stories about when their father was little, and how he is being his best and fighting just for them. How Mama was so worn, so miserable and exhausted, how she wept over every letter they received from the front, how warbled and parched her voice was when she read them to her and Clarey, how she trembled when she held her daughters in her gaunt arms. How Clarey asked every morning if Daddy was coming back that day. How there was never any response, until she took it upon herself to inform her little sister that he would not be home for quite some time. 

She recalls the agonizing meal with the Dunne family, when Ms Dunne took her two children, Matt and Linda, over for dinner. Ms Dunne was a good friend of her parents, and she’d lost her husband in France. That night, Mama had prepared some of the only meat they’d gotten their hands on in weeks- a plump hen that had mottled feathers. Mama had baked it and braised it in its own juices, whilst Ms Dunne spoke with her in the kitchen. The Dunne children were just slightly older than her and her sister, and though they seemed perfectly normal, they were cold and stiff, and Marigold did not like them at all. She remembered how their hollow glassy eyes looked right past her and Clarey, their faces sallow and brittle. They looked more like worn dolls than kids. Dinner was no easier- Ms Dunne had broken down in wretched wails halfway through the affair, and they left in haste, leaving them with entirely more food than they anticipated. She and Clarey gorged themselves that night, even eating the scraps their guests hadn’t finished. She hadn’t felt that full ever since.

She feels selfish in these thoughts. She was a child on the Homefront, she slept in a soft bed every night, and she always had something in her belly, no matter how meagre it was. She had no true concept of the incessant slaughter happening just beyond the shores of England.

But it ravaged her all the same. How much had she lost to the meaningless conflict? Why was her father taken from her? What horrible things did he have to do to come back to them? What atrocities did he inflict on boys who donned that German uniform?

She winces as she realizes she is crying too late- droplets fall onto the dust jacket. She bites her lip to keep it from quivering, and the sudden stillness of the room falls upon her. She looks up to the door leading to the storeroom, and sees her father standing there, watching her with weary, melancholic eyes.

“Goldie, is everything alright? What happened?” He says soothingly, and Marigold does not respond. She does not know what to say. She stares at him, feeling the tears bubble over. She cannot stop them anyway.

She breaks the gaze, looking down again at the book in her lap. The German soldier with the blank stare is unfazed. She wants to hit him. 

Her father glides across the room, weaving through the stacks of boxes holding the neatly packed literature. When he reaches her, he notices the book, and gently reaches out to take it from her shaking grasp.

She looks up at him as the book slips from her fingertips. She tastes metal, and releases her lip from her teeth. She has bitten it so hard it bleeds.

He stands over, holding the novel, taking it in. He says nothing, and the saddened look on his face has warped into one of observation, of contemplation. She feels utterly helpless, raw, and fully exposed. It is not like her to act so. She does not care for it in the slightest, this vulnerability.

“I’ve heard of this one. Apparently it’s very good.” He starts, meeting her eyes. There is something new in them now, but she cannot place it.

“I’d like to read it. It’s doing quite well right now, and the acclaim is unlike anything I’ve heard for a piece like the sort. They say it might be a definitive novel, a true reinvention of anything written on war.” He states plainly. It is not the reaction she would have expected in a million years.

“It’s written by a German.” Is all she can say in response. 

“It is, yes.”

She is caught off guard by how... indifferent he is as to this. She is crying, for God’s sake, but all of his emotion seems to have escaped him. She catches a stray glance of his hands as he holds the book. Her mind cannot help but rush to the worst, and she feels the tears start once again. She sniffles, and wipes her nose with her wrist.

“The boy on the cover. He’s wearing a German uniform.” She croaks, and he meets her gaze again.

“I want to help you, Marigold, but I don’t know what is upsetting you.” He replies flatly, his voice baritone and empty. Any of the gentleness from before has withered. And his eyes are a haze, just beyond her reach as she stares back at them. 

She wants to scream. Why don’t you understand? Don’t you know this is because of you? Didn’t these men take you from me? Didn’t you curse them, slaughter them, wash their entrails off of your bayonet? Why don’t you care about this? Why don’t you care about me?

“Didn’t you fight men like this?Are these not the ones that killed your friends? And you hold such praises for their books? For their literary feats?” She spits, feeling her chest wrought with emotion, clenching and unclenching her fists to alleviate her angry energy.

He nods. “I did, Marigold. I fought them for three years. They killed my friends. They killed many people. But so did we. So did I. It was war.” His voice is devoid of feeling, and Marigold recognizes the vacant glance, her stomach in knots. He isn’t with her right now, he’s back in whatever misery has haunted the back of his mind for the past eleven years.

She feels her breathing quicken, the tears falling harder, how her shoulders heave with the force. She is paralyzed. She meekly watches him, feeling the terror and confusion it had brought her when it had first started happening when he returned. Don’t leave me here with this, she silently begs. Don’t leave me behind. I need you to help me. I need you.

She watches as he returns to the moment, taking a deep breath. He looks down at her, a blistering sadness woven in his eyes. He looks down at the book again, before setting it down on one of the boxes to his right. He takes a knee, his face level from hers.

“What was all of this, Dad. I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t know, and it’s scaring me.” She whispers, and he brushes away the tears on her cheeks with his thumbs. She jolts back at the gesture, a primordial fear fuelling her as she recalls what could have been on those hands. He pauses for a brief moment, before wrapping his arms around her shaking shoulders, pulling her close to him. She does not have the energy to reciprocate, but she eases as he strokes her hair, his embrace a warm comfort.

“They were men like us, Marigold, and I bear them no ills. It was not their fault, as much as it wasn’t mine. We did what we had to to survive. The war destroyed them as much as it destroyed us.” He whispers, and she forces a small nod.

“I’d like to read that book. And I’d like you to as well, if it’s alright.” He adds, and she does not respond, but she knows she will read the book. She wants some understanding of the things that burdened her father whilst she longed for him from the comfort of their home.

“I want to read it.” She mumbles in response, and he breaks the embrace, kissing her forehead.

“You’re so big now, Goldie. In my head you’re still stumbling about on little legs, ranting about something or another in gibberish.” He smiles, tracing his thumb just under her eyes. He frowns.

“You need to sleep, my love. I don’t want this exhaustion to catch up on you. You’ll have plenty of time to wear yourself out when you go off to university this Autumn.” He says absentmindedly, paternal concern rife in his voice. She perks up slightly, straightening her shoulders.

“I... I still.... I still need to take inventory, and sort out the books. I’m sorry, I should have done that earlier, but I- I got... well...” She trails off, and her father shakes his head.

“Never mind that, my love. Go home, and take a nap. Get some rest. We can start out with the book tomorrow, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Tell Mama all is well. Give her a kiss for me, will you?” He soothes, and she feels fresh tears form as she throws her arms around him. He is caught off guard at first, but he soon returns the gesture, rubbing her back.

“My poor child. My poor, poor child.”

She trudges home half asleep, her eyes reddened from crying. It’s only a few hours past noon, but she is utterly worn. The onset of fatigue is misery, but she manages to keep her feet moving in front of the other to some degree of base efficacy. 

She almost collapses when she throws open the door, a new wave of tears spilling down her cheeks. Her mother catches her, swaying slightly as she soothes her crying daughter. In her clouded state, she lifts her head to kiss her mother’s cheek. “From Dad,” she rasps. And her mother understands.

She falls asleep almost the moment her head hits her pillow. It is sweet release, her mind easing as she slips into the dreamlessness. All is quiet.

And she wakes, and she feels disoriented, as if she is no longer in control of her own body. Her only concept of the time is the streaks of orange and pink light sifting through her window- the clock on her dresser broke a while ago, and she had not yet bothered to replace it.

She wipes her eyes of the unpleasantries that formed in her jarring rest, her mind far more soothed than it was prior. She slips out of bed, and pads through the hallway to go down to the main floor. The house is silent- it’s either so early the sun is only rising, or it is evening and she has slept through dinner. She cannot recall if her bedroom is on the western side of the house or not. She’s an absolute mess when it comes to directions.

Her mother and sister sit in the living room, her mother knitting whilst her sister embroiders. Clarey gives her a tender smile, and her mother looks up at her from her work.

“Your dinner’s in the kitchen, it might be a bit cold, but it should be fine.” She says warmly, and Marigold nods, looking over at the clock. It reads 7:30, her father must be home by now.

“Where’s Dad?” She asks, and her mother sighs.

“Outside, Goldie. I think he’s watching the sunset.”

Marigold parts from the living room, making her way through to the backyard, past the leftover pork roast and potatoes they’ve left for her sitting on the counter. She opens the back door, and sure enough, her father is standing in the garden, his head turned upwards to the clear summer sky.

She approaches him slowly, her bare feet soothed by the cool grass. There is a slight breeze, but it is not cold. The evening is pleasant, and it is a nice change from the sweltering heat of the day.

She stands beside him, taking in the sight with him in silence. She feels his arm wrap around her, and she rests her head against his shoulder.

“The sky sometimes looked like this in France, you know, and every time I saw it, I would always think of home. Of here, in this house, your mother and sister and you. I thought about you all the time, but it was especially painful whenever it was like this.” He says, a slight strain in his voice. “When you were a baby, I used to hold you out here, and we would watch it together, just the two of us. And I would cradle you to my chest, and feel you breathe, and just revel in the wonder that was the world, that my life could be so good, that I’d made something so incredibly beautiful.”

She feels a fresh stream of tears rush over.

“I grieve for the days I lost, Marigold. I mourn that I could not be here with you, that I spent that time...” He stops. 

“I know, Dad. I know.”

He turns to face her. She looks up at him, and he is crying too.

“I lost so much over there, Marigold. I don’t think I will ever be able to leave it all behind.” He responds, looking back up at the sky again. She does the same.

“I know.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “That man, Remarque, he called his book All Quiet on the Western Front. It was never quiet, Goldie. Not even when it was quiet! There was something horribly loud about it, no matter the time of day. Like it was... screaming. Something like that.” He pulls her close, and she rests her head against his chest. Another breeze rolls by, and she hears the leaves of the cherry tree rustle.

“I love you, Marigold. I’ve loved you from the moment your mother told me we were going to have a baby. A baby, of my own, a child in the world born of the woman I love. And I cried when I held you for the first time, you know. I wept because I couldn’t believe I’d done something so right.”

They stand in silence for a brief moment more.

“Do you regret the things you had to do, Dad?”

He takes a deep breath.

“Every day, Marigold. I doubt I will ever be freed from that as well. There’s a lot of things I’d do over if I could. There’s a lot of things all of us would’ve done over if we could. But we can’t.”

“Do you miss them?” She asks, and she feels her father freeze. 

She looks up at his face. He is blank again.

And it fades once more, and he looks down to meet her gaze.

“Yes, Marigold. I do. I do.”

He sighs.

“But I am still here, and though they are gone, they live on. We have to live for them, Marigold. We have to tell their stories.”

She looks up at the sunset again.

“Is that why you want me to read that book?” She asks, and he smiles wryly.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Do you have any stories I could tell? Any stories to keep alive?” She continues, and he stares out at the darkening sky with her.

“I do, Marigold, and I’ll tell them to you one day. Maybe you can write about them better than I ever could. But not today. I don’t think I could today. But I will, I promise. And I never break promises.”

She smiles too.

“Okay. I can wait.”

And the two stand, father and daughter, out in the yard, looking up at the open sky, for quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This work was heavily inspired by AQOTWF, my favourite book of all time. I have a small, somewhat cross over fic I have planned that I want to write at some point with lots of brainstorming from the Second Devon’s. Some little headcanon notes- Goldie is leaving for university at the end of the summer to study medicine in London, but she also enjoys writing and poetry, and goes on to publish some of her works! I have a lot more planned for the Schofield daughters, that’s for damn sure.


End file.
